


This Time

by DixieDale



Category: Garrison's Gorillas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 07:38:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20170594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: This time it wasn't him.  He'd come away without a scratch.  Not a damned scratch.  So why the hell did he hurt so bad?





	This Time

Craig Garrison had said it a dozen times. "I'm fine!" That wasn't always the case, of course, no matter how often or how loudly he proclaimed it. 

Well, this time it was the truth, at least as far as anyone else could have told. This time it had been him who'd gotten out without a scratch. But in some ways that would have been easier, if he was the one dealing with the pain from that job gone wrong. But there wasn't anything he could do about that. This time, it had been someone else, not him.

This time, HE was the one unmarked by the disaster that had befallen one member of his team. He was the one who had been miles away, smiling and dancing the night away with the elegant crowd, befriending Lance Biedermann, suspect in their current operation, while one of his men had been trapped in a hellhole no one had even known had existed. 

HE was the one who'd not figured it out til days later, and even then it hadn't been him alone, but his men who'd put the pieces together; days of endless searching, til a sly smile, an ambiguous phrase meant only to taunt him, and the pieces had finally slide together to form a picture, enough he and the team could search out, wrench open the entrance to that nightmare to pull their man out. 

Biedermann was so smug, so sure no one would ever figure it all out. So confident in his position as the reigning 'King of Dreams' as he called himself in private, that when Garrison had pressed him, he had only shrugged, and laughingly replied, "it is said that in the Palace of Dreams, the entrance to Heaven passes over the pathway to Hell. Did you know that? Not many do." 

There had been something in Biedermann's eyes, that smile, that told Garrison he'd just been given a clue - a clue the man responsible for the distribution of what Goniff called 'the Aunties', the hard drugs that were flooding the streets of London, thought Garrison was too stupid to figure out. 

Well, for awhile it looked like he was right, til after once again desperately brainstorming amidst frequent doses of heavy cursing, Casino had provided the prompt.

Garrison had just ground out that quotation for maybe the fifth time, slamming his hand down on the table in frustration. 

"Damn it! It has to mean SOMETHING! Biedermann was too sure of himself, too pleased with his own intelligence and cunning, for it not to!"

Casino had taken a hard swig at his glass, rubbing his fingers around the damp rim, making it ring in the silence, staring at it like that might cause 'that damn fool little Limey' to magically appear and swipe his lighter for the umpteenth time. {"Damn, I'd give anything if he would!"}

"Just disappeared into thin air! How the hell do you manage that, as slippery as Mr. Lightfingers is?? Sheesh, Beautiful," he'd growled, "sounds like one of those things outta that book you insisted on reading out loud last winter. You know, the one where everyone kept getting killed off - the one with all the secret passages and sliding doors and all kinds a weird traps and deadfalls and shit like that."

He paused, and got a thoughtful look on his face, then excitement poured off of him. "And, Warden, that Biedermann guy, didn't he say he was only giving people what they wanted, a taste of heaven? So, 'the entrance to Heaven'??? It passing over the 'pathway to Hell'??? Ya think maybe . . .??!"

Their eyes had snapped to attention, and Actor had gotten a deeply intense look on his face. 

"Craig, that house of Biedermann's; it is hundreds of years old. That would be quite possible, you know; at one time, many of the old houses had such things, an additional safeguard against invasion. Goniff was searching for the way into the records room, the storeroom for the more valuable of the drugs. He could have triggered something of the sort. 'The entrance to Heaven passes over the pathway to Hell.' Some sort of trap in the floor? In an area he would have had to pass over to search the area beyond?"

And so it was. Working carefully to avoid triggering any traps themselves, they finally located the drop-away panel in the mosaic floor appropriately depicting a scene from Dante's 'Inferno'. The panel they'd pried open, not caring just how much damage they did to a mosaic probably hundreds of years old, to find the fetid pool of water below, bordered by harsh outcroppings of jagged stone, very few actually clearing the water totally. To find one very battered, water-logged Cockney pickpocket, who had given them an impossibly weak excuse for his customary grin, and an equally weak, "decided to take the scenic route. Can't say much for it; don't think the ruddy place is going to make the catalogue for the Classic 'ouse Tour this year."

The military doctor had given him a perfunctory "he's fine; just missed a few meals is all." The man probably didn't appreciate the joint snarl he got from all and sundry at that casual comment, but they hadn't really expected any better. 

Patrick, at the small private hospital, wasn't so blaise about matters, issued all kinds of warnings along with a hearty dose of penicillin and a few other sundry items, but did agree that Goniff would get more personalized care at the Cottage with Meghada than he and the staff could give him, being as how practically every bed was currently occupied. "And she knows to call me or James if she runs into anything she can't handle."

HQ had been unwilling to accept Biedermann's connection to the drug operation without extensive interviews and searches and all else that took a great deal of time. AND, much to Garrison's frustration, they insisted he be at hand, every step of the way. He'd only finally made his weary way back to the Mansion late that night, just sticking his head in at the Dorm to tell the guys he was back.

Now, Garrison was laying in a quiet bedroom, safe and sound, not even a bruise or a torn thumbnail. Just laying there, knowing there were only three men in the dorm down the hall when there should have been four. Feeling the absence like a stone on his heart. And, come the morning, he was the one who'd be headed out on another job, without one vital member of his team. Hopefully it wouldn't be that way for long, but that's the way it would be, this time.

But that was tomorrow, them leaving; in the meanwhile, there was tonight, and there was no way he could stay in the Mansion, in that cold bedroom with only his own thoughts to keep him company, not when he couldn't rid his mind of the images that kept flooding in. No way he could leave without at least making sure . . .

Thus the quick jeep ride with darkened headlights, the soft knock at the cottage door, the warm and understanding nod he'd received when the door had opened. A few whispered words, and he headed to the bedroom alone, to sit in the darkened room, eyes focused on the still, shadowed figure in the big bed. It seemed both forever and only a few minutes when the silence was broken, so lost was he in thought, in remembering.

A quiet voice, "you didn't 'ave to come, sit there. I'm okay, you know." 

A tight husky voice responded from the darkness at the side of the room, one Craig almost didn't recognize as his own. "Yeah, I can see that. You're 'just fine'."

A reluctant chuckle. "Well, maybe not 'fine', but at least okay."

"What can I do to help? Do you need something to drink, to eat?"

"No, Meghada took care of that, not that I can keep anything down right now except water most often. Don't 'ave the nerve to try again, anyway, not for awhile yet; 'urts too ruddy bad bringing it all back up again."

"Then what CAN I do?"

A long silence, then a hesitant, even more reluctant, "well, wouldn't mind some 'elp to the john. There's a pot under the bed, but I've 'ad enough of using that. And, if there's any 'ot water, maybe 'elp me into the tub? A sponging is all very well, but not like an all-over, you know?"

"I'll take care of it. Be right back."

The sound of water running into a cast iron tub, during which Goniff found himself dozing again, fighting the memories away. Then a gentle hand on his shoulder roused him again, and he started to pull himself upwards.

"No, here, let me help. I'll get a light."

That had been met with a quick, "would rather not 'ave the light, if we can manage without."

"It would be a lot easier with," came the quiet voice.

"Yeah, but . . . I'm no treat to look at, you know? Too damned skinny now, for one thing," pausing at the low chuckle that met that statement.

"Well, alright, so I always was, but not like now. And all the rest. 'adn't taken a good look in awhile, you know, til now. Remember the fuss I made over that first scar I took when we pulled Charlie out of his mess? Oh, wasn't the first I 'AD, acourse, but one of the first this go around, with the team."

"ONE of the first, not the first," he was reminded. "I think the first were those bullets you took on the railway trestle, one of our first missions out."

"Well, like I said, I took a good look, and they're starting to really mount up. Not a pretty sight."

Well, that was true; was true for all of them, and perhaps none of them took a good look at themselves either, unless they had to.

The trip to the john taken care of, then the careful easing into the warm bath, him being left alone to lean back and relish the feeling, hearing the other puttering around in the bedroom. Eventually those arms helped him up and out again, and it was with a welcome smile he realized that the puttering he'd heard was those sweat-soaked bed linens being replaced by fresh ones from the shelves alongside the pantry.

"Thanks. 'Gaida was going to change those next time I woke up; seems it 'as to be done after every bit of dozing. Says I'm sweating the sickness out; must have been a ruddy lot of it inside seeing as w'at's still coming out. Think that clothes line is kept full with the sheets all the time since I got back. Easier to do the job with me up and out of the way; easier for you to 'andle me than 'er, too, I expect."

Leaning back against the freshened pillows, newly exhausted by his efforts, Goniff realized he hadn't even asked why Craig was there; he shouldn't have been, not with HQ on its usual tear, which it was, and with a job coming up, according to Casino and Chief when they'd come by earlier.

"Thought you'd be up at the Mansion; don't you 'ave to be out and gone tomorrow? You need your rest, Craig," he'd scolded, but not too hard. It had been so good to wake and find him here, he couldn't find it within himself to scold too hard. "And you know 'Gaida's taking good care of me."

The voice in the darkness was roughened, no matter how nonchalant Garrison tried to make it. "Yes, I know she is. I just figured I'd give her a little bit of a break while I could. She's catching a few winks on the daybed, unless she's back burrowing through those cookbooks of hers to find something that might set easy on your stomach. She told me you were having a little trouble with that."

"If you call me spewing all over 'er twice 'a little trouble', then, yeah, I am. Like the w'ole room is one of those tin cans, never stops moving really. Even those little 'erb packets don't seem to do the trick, not right now."

"Anyway, I'm here now. What can I do to help?" There had to be something; Garrison wasn't sure he could bear it if there wasn't something, something more than what little he'd already done. Damn HQ for insisting on his presence this whole past week!

A long silence, then a low, "think you might 'ave time to stretch out 'ere beside me for a bit? With me and the sheets being clean and all? All the time in that ruddy pit, was thinking 'ow much I wanted that, 'aving you, 'aving 'Gaida up close, at least once more."

There was no hesitation on Garrison's part, wouldn't have been even before the bath and the change of sheets, just a quick toeing off of his boots and removal of his outer shirt, a very careful easing himself onto the bed, now sharing those propped-up pillows, one arm under the tousled head and shoulders of the man next to him. 

With his free hand he gently traced the scars that Goniff had seemed so anxious about. There were a lot of them, and though Craig didn't know the origin of all of them, many he did, all too well. 

"So, you'd want to be free of these? Don't much like the looks of them?"

Goniff snorted, "well, aint like they're all that pretty, you know. Never 'ad much claim on that to begin with, not like you, but they sure don't 'elp any. Can't think anyone would be so eager to get a good look."

Garrison chuckled, both at the compliment and that rueful complaint. 

"I can't agree; I've never found it a chore to look at you, you know. To look, to touch," his hand gentle as he proved that point, though steering clear of any of the fresh injuries.

"So, which ones, I wonder? Which ones would you bypass? This one? The one you got helping get Charlie out safely? Would you trade it for maybe leaving Charlie behind? Or these two, the ones you got on that railroad trestle, saving me and the whole team? Would you let those go, knowing what would have happened if you HADN'T taken the chance? What about these two? When we were caught inside that German patrol, when those soldiers were lining up their rifles on Actor and me, Casino and Chief? Would you rather be without those - would you trade those scars for our lives? What about all the other lives you bought with those scars?

"The scars, you may not find them pretty, Goniff, but I think they're pretty damned beautiful." 

The warm chuckle and sleepy nestling of that flaxen head down onto his shoulder was all the response he got.

"Pretty damned beautiful. Just like you," Garrison whispered, his arms tightening slightly, and settled down to spend what little time he had left before he had to gather the rest of his team together and head out. Leaving part of his heart behind. At least, this time.


End file.
